“You shall, Verney,” said he, “and if you continue of the same mind, I will facilitate your views.  But first witness, I beseech you, the result of this night’s contest, and the triumph I am about to achieve, if I may so call it, while I fear that victory is to me defeat.  What can I do?  My dearest hopes appear to be near their fulfilment.  The ex-queen gives me Idris; Adrian is totally unfitted to succeed to the earldom, and that earldom in my hands becomes a kingdom.  By the reigning God it is true; the paltry earldom of Windsor shall no longer content him, who will inherit the rights which must for ever appertain to the person who possesses it.  The Countess can never forget that she has been a queen, and she disdains to leave a diminished inheritance to her children; her power and my wit will rebuild the throne, and this brow will be clasped by a kingly diadem.—­I can do this—­I can marry Idris.”—–­

He stopped abruptly, his countenance darkened, and its expression changed again and again under the influence of internal passion.  I asked, “Does Lady Idris love you?”

“What a question,” replied he laughing.  “She will of course, as I shall her, when we are married.”

“You begin late,” said I, ironically, “marriage is usually considered the grave, and not the cradle of love.  So you are about to love her, but do not already?”

“Do not catechise me, Lionel; I will do my duty by her, be assured.  Love!  I must steel my heart against that; expel it from its tower of strength, barricade it out:  the fountain of love must cease to play, its waters be dried up, and all passionate thoughts attendant on it die—­that is to say, the love which would rule me, not that which I rule.  Idris is a gentle, pretty, sweet little girl; it is impossible not to have an affection for her, and I have a very sincere one; only do not speak of love —­love, the tyrant and the tyrant-queller; love, until now my conqueror, now my slave; the hungry fire, the untameable beast, the fanged snake—­no—­no—­I will have nothing to do with that love.  Tell me, Lionel, do you consent that I should marry this young lady?”

He bent his keen eyes upon me, and my uncontrollable heart swelled in my bosom.  I replied in a calm voice—­but how far from calm was the thought imaged by my still words—­“Never!  I can never consent that Lady Idris should be united to one who does not love her.”

“Because you love her yourself.”

“Your Lordship might have spared that taunt; I do not, dare not love her.”

“At least,” he continued haughtily, “she does not love you.  I would not marry a reigning sovereign, were I not sure that her heart was free.  But, O, Lionel! a kingdom is a word of might, and gently sounding are the terms that compose the style of royalty.  Were not the mightiest men of the olden times kings?  Alexander was a king; Solomon, the wisest of men, was a king; Napoleon was a king; Caesar died in his attempt to become one, and Cromwell, the puritan and king-killer, aspired to regality.  The father of Adrian yielded up the already broken sceptre of England; but I will rear the fallen plant, join its dismembered frame, and exalt it above all the flowers of the field.